In days gone by I too have waited out
cold rains near columns of the Stock Exchange.
And I assumed that it was God's own gift.
It may be that I was not wrong in this.
I too was happy once. I lived in bond
of angels. And I fought against fierce monsters.
At the main entranceway I lay in wait,
like Jacob at his ladder, for a lovely
girl running down the stairs.
But all of this
has gone, vanished forever - wholly hidden.
And gazing out the window, having written
the word 'where', I don't add a question mark.
It is September now. An orchard stands
before me. Distant thunder stuffs my ears.
The ripened pears hang down in the thick leaves
like signs of maleness. And my ears now let
the roaring rain invade my drowsy mind -
as skinflints let poor kin into their kitchens:
a sound that's less than music, though it's more
than noise.
Autumn 1968
trns. by George Kline
